First Steps
by Cruelest Sea
Summary: 1970s tv show, post-series. On a quiet summer's day, Frank finds a way to move past a tragic loss.


**_First Steps_**

_"Sibling relationships - and 80 percent of Americans have at least one - outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust." - Erica E. Goode_

He parks his motorbike under a stand of trees and crosses the blacktop toward the building.

It's overgrown, the "for sale" sign surrounded by weeds pushing up against all odds through pavement and concrete, living in the midst of dead ground.

The building looks as he feels - old before it's time, tired and worn.

"That would break your heart, Joe."

It takes him a moment to realize it's the first time he's spoken to Joe since his brother... He squares his shoulders, focusing his thoughts on the building.

He never knew what Joe saw in this place, the hours he could spend here with the music. He never understood.

A lump swells in his throat and he swallows hard, pushing it down before it builds into tears.

He doesn't cry. He's always been the strong one, holding together. Only a year may have separated them but he was the big brother, the one who let Joe crawl in with him when he had nightmares as a small child, and the one who tightly held his brother's hand at their mother's funeral.

The one who made the more recent funeral arrangements because their father, in his grief, couldn't find the words.

A voice breaks into his thoughts.

"Hey, there! You interested in buying?"

It's the owner of the discothèque - he's forgotten the man's name - and when Frank turns his face softens.

"You're Joe's brother, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir." _I was._ He doesn't say it but it hangs between them.

"He was a real nice kid. I'm very sorry."

He gives a faint nod, barely acknowledging the condolences. He's heard too many of them recently, the meaningless string of words running together into a stream of emptiness.

Silence falls between them as Frank stares back at the building and the man shifts awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. Finally he stops short and clears his throat.

"I've got something to give you." He leaves him there, unlocks and enters the building, and returns a couple minutes later with something in his hand.

"He left this here the last time he sang." He says quietly. "I know he would have wanted you to have it."

It takes Frank a moment to recognize the object and when he does he slowly reaches out and takes it.

It's Joe's tape recorder, a tape still inside.

"Thanks."

The man gives a faint smile and turns, walking a short distance away to give him time alone.

He runs his hand across the recorder with a reverent touch, remembering all the times he refused to listen to it, all the days he ran off while Joe sang. _If you could come sing just once more I'd stay and listen._

He kneels, the heat of the pavement scorching through his pants, resting the recorder on his knees.

He lets the tape rewind and then pushes the play button. Joe's voice comes clearly over the recorder, full of life and laughter and his chest twists, the pain threatening to claw it's way through the skin.

He listens to the music, letting it seep into him, letting himself pretend for just a moment that he's back there, that Joe's still alive and everything is right, that it never happened, that he isn't gone and hasn't left him alone.

_Why did you leave me?_

The song goes on, Joe's voice rising and falling through the words.

_You were pretty good, Joe. You could have been a rock star, you know it?_ A wry smile twists his mouth. Joe would have loved that. He can almost see the light in his eyes, the way he danced around the stage, working the audience, having the time of his life, the flashes of silver from the disco ball darting across his face.

_All that's left is what you remember._

It's during the first verse of the third song when something wet trickles out of the corner of his eye and splashes onto the cassette player. He doesn't brush it away.

And sometime during the next song the rest of the tears follow it.

It's a half an hour later when he stops. The tape has run out, finishing the last song and the clapping. He wasn't the only person who loved his brother.

All his tears are gone, dried on his cheeks, and he feels strangely empty without them filling up his chest, without the ache carved into him.

He lifts up the recorder, cradling it gently to his chest and walking to his bike, laying it down on the seat.

His head lifts, eyes staring back at the building, focusing on the green plants springing up around the sign, the life all around him.

For the first time he realizes that it's summer. Winter and spring have passed without his knowledge, the world dying and coming back, green and new. Not the same as it was, but different.

He can hear the sounds in the distance - the slam of screen doors, the bells of the ice cream truck, the laughter of children playing, the whisper of the wind.

He has a choice. He can stay here forever, frozen within that day, within memories he can't bring back. Or he can go on, remembering Joe, remembering the good times and not the bad, living for both of them, a full life like Joe would have wanted.

The man is still sitting beneath the tree, waiting for Frank to leave so he can get on about his work on the building. Frank puts his hands in his jeans' pockets.

"The discothèque..." He tilts his head toward the building. "I might be interested in buying it."

The man gives an understanding nod.

"Give me a call, son."

He looks back at the building. A little paint, a little work here and there, and it could be quite the place. Even if disco is fading away, there will always be kids, and kids want a hangout. He could fix it up brand new, traces of the old place mingled with a fresh start. And maybe his father would like to work on it too.

The summer breeze gently ruffles his hair and for the first time in all these hours and days and weeks Frank smiles.

It's not a large smile, filled with the unbridled joy of before, but a quiet one, the first tentative step in a new direction.

He chooses to live.


End file.
